


Shakespeare's Got Nothing on Us

by VeggiesforPresident (luridCavum)



Category: The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, Protective Dallas Winston, Protective Johnny Cade, Slice of Life, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-08 14:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14696058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luridCavum/pseuds/VeggiesforPresident
Summary: Johnny shows up at Dally's door one night.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tragedy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18110351) by [VeggiesforPresident (luridCavum)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luridCavum/pseuds/VeggiesforPresident). 



> About a year pre-book.

It’s close to midnight when someone knocks on the door. Dallas curses and rubs the exhaustion from his eyes. A spike of adrenaline rises in the back of his throat. But whoever’s at the door knocked way too softly to be a cop, especially this late. Maybe it’s onea the neighbors complaining about the weed smell. Fuckin’ prudes, the lot of ‘em.

But when Dally yanks the door open, it’s not a cop or a neighbor, but Johnny Cade, bleeding from the lip, dark eyes wide.

“Johnny,” Dally says, blinking, “What—“

“Sorry,” Johnny says, looking away, “Ponyboy’s outta town, and Two-Bit’s in the slammer. I uh, need some help.” He gestures to his lip, and when Dally squints he can see the beginnings of a black eye bruising under Johnny’s left.

“What happened?” Dally reaches out and takes Johnny’s chin in his hand—Good. He won’t need stitches.

“Got into it with some Socs,” Johnny says, gritting his teeth, not looking at Dally.

Dally huffs. He knows how that is. “Alright,” Dally says, dropping his hand and opening the door a crack. It’s late, and Dally should be in bed. But the gang sticks together, apparently. It’s not something Dallas is used to yet. After a beat, he says, “C’mon in, kid.”

Johnny hesitates in the doorway, takes a deep breath and shuffles into the kitchen, his wide, dark eyes taking everything in. He hasn’t been over before, unless you count when one of the gang stops in to collect Dally and take him somewhere else. But it’s never been just the two of them. Johnny pauses on the couple of old photographs hanging on the peeling grey wallpaper. Dally chews the inside of his lip.

“Uh,” Dally says, dragging a chair out from the kitchen table with his foot, “Have a seat.” Johnny does. He doesn’t say anything. Not that Dally thought he would, the kid doesn’t talk much. Whatever. Less thinking for Dally to do. Dally digs around the freezer for a minute before pulling out a half-empty bag of peas. When he turns around, Johnny is inspecting his fingernails, biting his lip, looking like a drowning man in his loose jean jacket. “Here,” Dally grunts, tossing the peas down on the table. Johnny startles. Dally doesn’t miss the tremor in his hand when Johnny reaches for the bag.

Dally swallows. Johnny still doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches on, condensing around them like the water droplets on the peas. After a few minutes, Dally grunts and goes to get some Bandaids. When he comes back, Johnny’s shoulders are shaking, and tiny, inaudible gasps are coming from his busted mouth. Dally clears his throat. Johnny freezes.

“Sorry,” Johnny mumbles, wiping his eyes and fumbling with the frozen peas. Dally chews his lip again. Shit. He can’t remember the last time he saw someone cry. Well, there was that Soc who bawled like a baby when Dally held ‘im down and pressed a blade to his throat. But that isn’t the same. Dally swallows. People didn’t cry in jail. Not greasers. Especially not him.

“Nah,” Dally says anyway, shuffling over to the seat adjacent to Johnny. Johnny glances up to him then away, his eyes brimming red. Dally suppresses a sigh. Shit. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. What to say.

So instead of saying anything, Dally slides the box of bandaids across the table. Johnny takes one. Silence drags on. Geez. What would Two-Bit say? He’d probably make some crack about how busted lips are tuff. Soda would want Johnny to talk about his… feelings. God. And the Curtis’ dad has that whole first aid kit under the sink. Fuck. Why’d they have to visit the countryside this weekend? They know all about this feelings shit. But Dallas? Dallas just knows how to get even.

Oh.

That’s an idea.

“Which motherfucker was it?” Dally asks, spinning his ring around his finger. Johnny’s tears have stopped, for now. “I’ll cut ‘em up real good next time I see ‘em.”

To his surprise, Johnny snorts. “Nah,” Johnny says. His mouth curls into a smile around his split lip, “I started it.”

Dally splutters and lets out a low whistle, “You, Johnnycake? Starting somethin’ with a Soc?”

Johnny shrugs, “You know Frank’s baby sister?”

“Susie? Sure,” Dally says. He knows of her, at least. Susie’s just entered middle school, already swears and smokes as much as Dally did at that age.

“One of them kept harassing her, tryin’ to get her smokes. Saying she was too young to be out this late, ya know? Shit like that,” Johnny says, lip curling in disgust, “One of ‘em tried to grab her hair, too.” Dally finds himself sneering. Sure, Susie might be a whiner, but she doesn’t deserve that.

“So you went after ‘em?”

Johnny nods.

“Tell me who they are. I can rough ‘em up.”

Johnny bites his lip, tonguing the scab forming there, “Mick, and uh. What’s his name? Randy somethin’. Looks like a Beatle with his haircut like that.” He grins. Dally nods. Yeah, he knows them. Randy wears all those rings. Cut up Dally’s face real bad once, took a week to heal. Dally grinds his teeth.

“Yeah, I’ll fuck ‘em up for you.”

Johnny is quiet for a moment, but a smile creeps across his dark face. “Thanks, Dal.”

Dally shrugs, “Sure.”

Silence stretches out again, settles in the empty chairs around the table. Dallas fiddles with his ring, admiring the glitter of gold. Johnny puts a bandaid on his lip once the bleeding stops. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks. A car zooms down the street, too fast to be legal, the driver probably too drunk to care. Johnny switches between tonguing his lip and staring off into space, eyes glazing over.

“Hey,” Dallas says after Johnny spaces out for the third time, “You wanna smoke?” He can’t believe he didn’t ask sooner. Johnny nods with vigor. Dallas fishes a pack and a lighter out of his pocket and lights one between his teeth. He hands the carton to Johnny, whose hands are still shaking. After watching Johnny fail to flick the lighter a few times, Dallas grabs the thing from Johnny’s hand and lights his cigarette for him. Johnny doesn’t look at him. After a few puffs, Johnny glances around the table. “What?” Dally asks.

“Ashtray?”

“Shit, nah,” Dally says. He pulls a mostly-clean plate from the other end of the table and sets it in front of Johnny, who taps his ashes out. It takes a few minutes, but the lines on Johnny’s face begin to relax. His shoulders droop. His hand steadies. He flicks hair out of his eyes.

It’s a good look on him, Dally thinks, not being so stressed out.

Silence falls between them again. It gets to Dally eventually. When he lights his second cigarette, he takes a long drag and just starts talking. He tells Johnny about the fight he got into at Buck’s place a few weeks ago, when the broad he was picking up didn’t mention she had a boyfriend. “Took a nasty blow to the stomach. Couldn’t breathe right for a while.” Dally says.

Johnny makes a face, smoke seeping through his teeth.

Dally laughs, “That ain’t nothin’. You shoulda seen some of the guys in New York. One of them ran from the cops with two broken ribs and a busted jaw. Had to climb over fences and shit to get away. Tuff stuff.”

Johnny’s eyes go wide. “What’d they do to piss off the fuzz?”

Dally shrugs, “Whatever, really. Broke into the movies, mouthed off to a store clerk, stole shit, beat up some kids. Anything he could do, he did.”

“Did he get away?”

“Every time,” Dally says, pride swelling on his tongue. “One time he got hurt so bad couldn’t leave the couch for two weeks, though. Had to smoke through a pack a day to keep himself sane.”

“Wow,” Johnny says. He fingers at his cigarette, licking the flavor off his lips, “That’s tuff.”

“Sure was,” Dally says. The air has gone stale with smoke, but Dally sucks in a deep breath anyway.

“What was his name?” Johnny asks, eyes bright, leaning forward in anticipation.

Dally smirks, “Dallas Winston.”

“No way,” Johnny says, his grin growing.

Dally nods. “S’true.” He juts his chin out, leaning close to Johnny. On one side of his jaw is a bright pink discoloration half the width of a knuckle, in the vague shape of a star. The skin is slightly raised, “Told a cop to go fuck himself. He didn’t like that too much. Good thing he didn’t know I had a blade on me.”

Johnny leans in close and studies the scar. In his peripheral vision, Dally sees Johnny’s hand twitch out reflexively before Johnny pulls it back to his chest. “Tuff.”

“Yeah.”

They lapse into silence again, but it doesn’t bother Dally as much this time.

“Hey, Dal?” Johnny says halfway through his second cigarette.

“Mm?” Dally hums.

“Thanks.”

“Sure thing.” Dallas sucks on his third cancer stick, “Hey, there’s a deck of cards in the top drawer behind you. Let’s play somethin’.”

After a beat, Johnny agrees.

It turns out Johnny doesn’t know anything more complicated than Go Fish. They play a few rounds of it, but the damn kid can’t stop grinning whenever he picks a good card off the pile, so Dally wins in ten minutes flat. Johnny scowls and hands his last two cards over. Dally thinks it’s the most expressive he’s ever seen the kid.

“You would suck at poker,” Dally says, raising his eyebrows, “With your face like that.”

“I’ve never played,” Johnny admits. Dally shuffles the cards.

“Obviously. You can barely play a round of Go Fish,” Dally says.

Johnny stills.

Shit, way to pour salt on it, Dally.

Dally opens his mouth to apologize—since when is Dally someone who apologizes?— but Johnny somehow beats him to it.

“At least I don’t pick up girls who have boyfriends.”

Coming from anyone else, Dally would’ve punched them. But it’s so unexpected to hear from quiet little Johnny, all Dallas can do is laugh, full-bellied, mouth full of smoke.

“Guess you’re right,” Dally says, “Guess you’re right.”

__________

Dally isn’t sure how it happens, but Johnny winds up being the best part of Dallas’ day, any day. He comes over most nights the next couple weeks. After the Curtis’ get back from their vacation, Johnny spends a few hours tooling around with Ponyboy, then instead of heading back to his parents’ place, he knocks on Dallas’ door. Sure, sometimes Dally’s at Buck’s, sometimes he has a girl over, but on the nights he’s free, Dally grabs Johnny in half a headlock and pulls him inside. Most nights, they have a few smokes and play Go Fish. Dally teaches Johnny how to keep his expression locked down, and after a while Johnny even wins a few games. Johnny learns Rummy, War, and they’re working on Texas Hold ‘Em.

Dally doesn’t get it, to be honest. In New York, he liked fighting. He liked spitting on cops and old Catholic women. His mouth always tasted like blood and tobacco. That hasn’t changed much in Oklahoma: he nicks things from the convenience store because it’s easy. He gets drunk and fucks whatever girls offer him a warm bed. He kicks Socs’ heads in when he feels like it. But somehow, shooting the shit with Johnny has become the highlight of his day, no matter what day it is. He _likes_ the kid, feels at ease around him. Half the time they play cards and don’t even say anything, maybe pass a joint or a beer between them, only talk when it’s necessary for the game. That should drive Dally wild. It would normally. But it doesn’t. Because it’s Johnny, whatever that means. Besides, the other half of the nights, like this Tuesday night, they talk, and talk a lot.

“That’s bullshit. You can’t do that,” Dally says, cigarette bobbing between his teeth.

Johnny raises his eyebrows, smoke puffing from his nose, “It’s true. We had to dissect one to pass ninth grade science.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” Dally insists, shaking his head, “Got any fours?”

“Go Fish,” Johnny says, “Ask anyone. Even Two-Bit had to do it.”

“Was it like, hopping around on the tray? Did you have to pin it down?” Dally asks, picking a card from the pile. He grins, all teeth, “Was it bloody?”

“What?” Johnny says, “No, it was dead already. Like, they froze it and stuff. Got any Jacks?”

“That’s jank. You saw me pick that up,” Dallas scoffs, handing over the card. He finishes off his cigarette and smushes it out on the table, leaving a little black mark.  
“Did not,” Johnny says, but then his – admittedly improving— poker face breaks and he grins, crooked tooth dazzling, “Okay, maybe.”

“Oh, that’s it,” Dally says. He smacks his cards down on the table and lunges across to Johnny, pulling him into a headlock. Johnny taps Dally’s thigh and Dally loosens up a fraction, but then Johnny lunges at him, his small hands surprisingly strong against Dally’s chest. They grapple together, wrestling in a few blows and kicks. Dally winds up pinning Johnny to the floor, hands on Johnny’s wrists. The two boys pant, smelling of smoke and sweet beer. Johnny’s eyes are brown. Dally doesn’t realize he’s laughing until he needs to gasp for air.

“Uncle,” Johnny coughs out, and Dally lets up. Dallas sits back on his knees, breath coming in short. He needs to quick smoking, he’s bound to get cancer one of these years. Johnny plucks at his shirt and fixes it.

“You good?” Dally asks once Johnny adjusts himself.

Johnny nods, “Yeah.”

A beat, “Seriously, fucking frogs, man? Dead ones?”

“Yeah. We took out their hearts and everything.”

“Fuck,” Dally says, letting out a low whistle. Johnny laughs, and it comes out a bit broken, like he himself isn’t used to the sound. Dally’s chest gets tight, and it’s not from exertion. Yeah, somehow Johnny’s become the best part of his fucking day.


	2. Part Two

It’s a warm night, but the lack of breeze makes Dallas feel sticky. The music is too loud even from the back porch. Acrid smells of cheap beer and weed smoke permeate to the outside. Buck is off somewhere, probably drinking his weight in booze. Dally sucks on a cancer stick and puffs it out into the night air. The tobacco is bitter and heavy on his tongue. He feels a presence come up behind him, emerging from the shadows. Dallas grins around his cigarette despite himself.

“Hey,” Johnny says, pulling the lapels of his jean jacket close around his body.

“Hey, Johnnycake,” Dallas says. He scoots over on the rickety swing, and Johnny takes up the free space. The splintering wood groans under their combined weight.

“Shit, you think this’ll hold?” Johnny asks. Dally glances at the wood, it’s peeling white paint. He shrugs. Johnny grabs the cigarette from between Dally’s lips and takes a puff. The smoke curls away, blending in with the wispy grey clouds above them. “What’re you doin’ out here? I thought you’d be up with some girl by now.”

Dallas shakes his head and grabs the cigarette back, “Nah,” He says. Then after a beat, adds, “Dunno. Not feelin’ it tonight.” He takes a drag and holds the cig out to Johnny, who takes it and puffs it twice. Johnny’s eyes stay on Dally while he smokes.

They sit like that for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth, music thumping inside, until that and a second cigarette are smoked through.

Johnny eyes flick away from Dally, “Hey,” he says, voice hoarse, “You seen the new convenience store down on Fifth?”

Dally shakes his head, “Nah. Why?”

“I was strollin’ through earlier, the clerk is older than god. Lots of good stuff, all kinds of candy, and some fancy new cherry Coke.”

Dally smiles around the smoke, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Johnny says. He leans in and takes Dally’s cigarette, his cold fingers touching Dally’s lips, “Nothin’s nailed down, neither.”

“Yeah? You implyin’ what I think you are?”

Johnny nods, “Yeah.”

“Tuff. When’s it close?”

Johnny takes a drag, “Not for another hour.”

Dally grins. “You dog. Let’s go.”

They wander down toward the convenience store on the corner of Fifth and Main, passing cigs back and forth, not saying much. Somewhere on third, a dog tied up behind a chainlink fence starts barking. Dally throws an arm over Johnny’s shoulders, letting out a whoop and holler until they pass the house and the dog quiets. Johnny tips his head back and blows a couple rings into the sky, circling the half-moon with smoke.

“Thanks, Dal,” Johnny says, and Dally feels Johnny’s voice vibrate against his arm.

“Yeah,” Dally says. He lets Johnny take another drag before grabbing the cig from him. Johnny grins.

On Fourth street, Dally drops his arm and lets Johnny trail some ways in front of him. The kid looks like he’s drowning in his jacket, especially when Johnny is hunched over in the dark like he is. It’s nothing like how boys hold themselves in jail, all angles and teeth. Like those birds that make themselves bigger to scare off predators. Dally saw somethin’ about them in a documentary once, that his stepdad left on when he passed out on the couch. Johnny doesn’t do that, he doesn’t make himself bigger like those birds. He may have a big jacket on, but anyone can tell he’s small. Hunching over, hiding in his coat, it’s like he’s willing himself to disappear. Something constricts in Dally’s throat. He couldn’t stand it if Johnny disappeared. Can’t even stand the thought.

Then, Johnny turns around, glances at him, and smiles, crooked. He hands Dal the cigarette, only a toke or two left. Dally finds himself smiling back through the smoke. Johnny turns around every few streetlamps and grins at Dally, shit-eating. Dally can’t help but smile back. His fingers are twitching, ready to grab whatever he can and slip it into his pocket. It hums in the air between them, buzzing like the summertime bugs. Nah, Johnny’s not gonna disappear, at least not while there’s shit to get up to.

They reach the convenience store, or at least what Dally can guess is the convenience store. The sign is made of cardboard, and the whole front of the shop is plastered in graffiti. Pale light spills out from the shop, rows of junk food and pop stretched out, waiting for them. Johnny goes in first while Dally finishes a cigarette. Inside, Johnny scans the aisles a couple times, pocketing little things as he goes. The old man behind the counter eyes him a bit, sneers, but mostly just sighs and checks his watch.

“We’re closing soon,” The man grunts when Dally walks in.

Dally shrugs, “I’ll be outta here soon,” he says, running a hand over the pop bottles lined up near the counter. He wants to grab one, but with the old man right there, that’d be as stupid as letting Buck sell him weed, “You got Camels?” He asks instead. Dally eyes behind the man, where the cigarettes are locked.

The man looks him up and down and scoffs, “Not for you, kid.”

“Aw, c’mon, Pops,” Dally says, leaning into the counter a bit. Normally, Dally wouldn’t argue, he’d just wait until the man went back to the bathroom or something. But the smokes aren’t the point, right now. Dally needs to keep the old man’s attention off Johnny. The old man leans away from Dally. Dally catches a whiff of tobacco on him. Perfect. Dally plasters on wolfish smile, “I know they’re rotten for me, but you know how hard it is t’quit. C’mon, I won’t tell.” Dally winks.

“No,” The old man says, scratching his arm. He sighs, “Listen, it’s been a long day, why don’t you head out before I call my buddy down at the police station?”

“Aw, Pops,” Dally sighs.

The old man glances away from Dally, and his eyes harden.

“Hey!” He barks.

Dally’s blood goes cold and he whips around. Shit. Johnny’s a couple rows behind them, his fingers on a chocolate bar too big to fit into his jacket pocket. Johnny meets Dally’s eyes. The man clamors out from behind the counter. The boys shoot off, the doorbell jangling behind them. The man curses them after them, shakes his fist in the air, threatens them with something about the police. But doesn’t follow them out the door.

Dally doesn’t hear any of it. He only hears the wind whipping in his ears, the slapping of feet on gravel, and Johnny’s laugh, hiccupping through the dark. They run, and run, until Dally’s lungs are ready to burst. They’re somewhere between Buck’s place and the Curtis’ when Johnny curves into a vacant lot before skidding to a stop, panting with his whole body, his hands on his knees. Only then does Dally realize he’s holding a bottle of Coke, one of the ones from the front of the store. Huh. Guess he snatched it without thinking.

Johnny looks up at Dally and they burst into fits of laughter.

Dally wheezes and gasps. “Fuck, Johnny,” he says once he gulps a few solid lungfuls of air. He really needs to stop smoking, “The hell were you thinking?”

“Wasn’t,” Johnny wheezes.

“Obviously,” Dally says, “Dumbass.” His breath comes in steadier now. Dally pants a few more times, “What’d you snag?”

Johnny, still breathing hard, moves over to the dim bug lantern on the side of one of the buildings. He pulls handful after handful of shit out of his pockets. Dally’s eyes get wider the more Johnny reveals in the blue light: candy, nail clippers, little rubber bouncy balls. A broken candy bar.

Dally laughs again, a deep belly laugh, “Fuck. Didn’t think you’d swipe that much.” Dally pops the lid off his prize Coke, “Fuck. Fuckin’ tuff, man.” He takes a swig, “Cheers.” He swallows. Johnny’s eyes are on him again. Johnny licks his lips. “Want a sip?”

“Sure,” Johnny says, taking the glass from Dally carefully. He swipes his lips with his tongue before pressing the bottle to his mouth. He downs half the bottle. When he’s done, he lets out a satisfied sigh. “Thanks.” A beat. “Hey, Dal?” He asks, holding the bottle out to Dally.

Dally’s hand curls around the neck of the pop bottle, brushing Johnny’s first two fingers. “Yeah?”

“Look at that,” Johnny says. With his free hand, he points up.

Dally follows Johnny’s finger out to where it’s pointing. Stars. Dozens of them, dotting the sky in patterns Dallas doesn’t know but feels like he ought to. Way, way more stars than he ever saw in New York. Not that he looked up much there anyway. Sure, sometimes he’d sneak out onto the fire escape of his mother’s apartment for a smoke and there they’d be, indistinguishable from the airplanes, hanging out like they had all the time in the world. Dally would suck his cancer stick down to the orange and watch the ashes fall five stories. He’d watch the stars and airplanes, too, until his mother caught wind of where he was and started hollering.

“Beautiful,” Johnny breathes, and Dally is thrown back into the now. Now, in Tulsa. Now, Johnny moving to Dally’s side, pointing to a cluster of stars off to their left. “That’s the Big Dipper.”

“Yeah?” Dally asks.

Johnny blinks slowly, a smile pulling one side of his mouth, “Yeah. And over there’s Cassiopeia, the Queen,” He says. He looks away, “Pony knows more than I do, about constellations and stuff.”

“Shoot,” Dally says, “Well, you know more than me.”

Johnny smiles, and its brighter than any star or moon or stupid bug lantern.

“I guess so,” Johnny says.

“It’s tuff,” Dally says.

“Shit, naw,” Johnny says, but he’s grinning.

Dally takes another drink of pop, and watches Johnny watch him as he drinks it down, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Dally whoops and throws the empty bottle hard enough that it smashes with a satisfying splinter. “Shit, Johnny,” Dally smiles, his mouth sticky with the aftertaste of Coke, “That was some tuff stuff you pulled today.”

“Shoot,” Johnny says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “It ain’t nothing.” A beat, “It got you feelin’ better.”

Dally blinks, “What?”

“Yeah,” Johnny looks away, fascinated by the bug light, “You’re laughin’ an’ stuff now. You weren’t before.”

Dally blinks again, “Uh,” He says. Huh. He hadn’t noticed. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Johnny smiles, his skin lit up, his eyes crinkled at the edges. Half his face is shaded in the blue light.

Dally smiles too, an unfamiliar stretch of his face.

Johnny huffs a laugh and looks away.

“Thanks,” Dally says, tasting the words in his mouth before he says them, “Thanks for that, Johnny.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says with a one-shouldered shrug, “Any time, Dal.”


	3. Part Three

The road stretches out into the horizon in either direction, winter wind slicing across the long fields of grass. Dally zips by, frost cutting his cheeks through the open window. He drives almost twice the limit, he swears, he shouts, he turns the music up too loud. It’s some hard stuff, from the underground clubs in New York; none of the twangy backwater shit he gets on the radio out here. Dally lets out a holler and its swallowed in the wind.

There’s a Dairy Queen a few miles south of town, enough in the middle of nowhere that Dally’s surprised it’s still open, but he pulls in with a screech of his tires. A couple families give him dirty looks as he gets out. He glares at them, scratches the cut congealing on his cheek. Dally winks at one of the mothers, the one with a big gold crucifix on her chest. If this were New York, she’d be clutching said cross and telling him to go to church, that Jesus can save him. If this were New York, he would tell her to fuck off, and maybe knock down her shake for good measure. But this isn’t New York, so Dally lights a cigarette right outside the entrance and dares her with his eyes to say something. She doesn’t.

Fuck. He inspects his knuckles where they’re starting to purple. The Soc bastard didn’t even put up a good fight, he was too sloshed. Dally gnashes his teeth. Who gets day drunk on a Tuesday? Worthless fucks, that’s who.

Dally finishes his cigarette and smushes it out on his boot heel. A couple families are milling around across the parking lot. One of them has a little boy bundled up in a puffy jacket with them. The husband leans over and kisses his wife over her scarf. The wife laughs. Fuck them. Fuck their happy little family and their marshmallow kid. Fuck all of it. If Dally was sure his fingers weren’t broken, he’d hit something. Smash the window. Strangle the waitress with the neon open sign. Anything. Instead, Dally tosses his cigarette butt away and heads back out. He can’t fuckin’ do this. He barely knows what he's doing out here. Fuck.

So, Dally guns it back into town, avoiding all the roads where the fuzz like to hang out on week days. The last thing he needs is some balding asshole leaning against the roof of his car asking him _why he isn’t in school, young man?_ Dally sighs. Maybe he isn’t in school, young man, ‘cause he hasn’t set foot in a school since getting hauled off to juvie the last time, and that was almost four years ago. Maybe ‘cause his dad’s a drunk and cashiers at a gas station. Maybe ‘cause he doesn’t remember the last time he actually laughed, unless he was blasted drunk or high.

Except, hang on. That’s not true. A few nights ago, when Johnny stuck a couple pencils in his mouth and called himself a walrus—something Two-Bit had taught him, apparently— That got Dally in stitches, and he wasn’t even tipsy. Hadn’t had a drop to drink that night at all. Johnny was just that funny, with his voice going weird and high. And the way Johnny looked at him, and wiggled his eyebrows. Yeah. That was the last time Dally laughed somethin’ fierce.

Huh. Weird.

Dally doesn’t realize he’s making his way to the high school until he’s two blocks away, idling at a stoplight. Fuck. He digs in the cup holder for a smoke and lights one. Fuck it. It’s almost noon. No point in turning around now. The light turns green and Dally pulls through, trying to remember what Johnny’s told him about how the high school schedule works. It might be lunch time.

Thankfully, Dally doesn’t have to think too hard, because when he pulls into the parking lot, he spots Johnny and Ponyboy on an old picnic table, stealing puffs of cigs and glancing intermittently at the door. They jump when they see Dally’s car roll up, but they settle down when they realize it’s him. Johnny smiles with one corner of his mouth.

“What’re you doing here?” Johnny asks.

“Sup, Dally?” Ponyboy asks. He looks away too fast. Checking out Dally’s cut up cheek, no doubt.

“Nothin’ yet,” Dally says, glancing around. Ponyboy has a dented metal lunchbox in his lap. Over by the fence, a couple other hoods are huddle up, no doubt passing a joint back and forth and trying to hide it in their clouds of breath. But otherwise, the area’s empty. “Ain’t you cold?” Dally nods towards Johnny, who’s wearing only a thin jean jacket.

Johnny shrugs, “Nah. Besides, they don’t let us smoke inside. Last time someone got caught, they took all the doors off the bathrooms.”

Dally makes a face.

Johnny takes a drag, “Yeah. So we’re stuck out here.”

From the school building, a bell rings. Pony smushes out his cigarette and glances back to the door, “Hey, I gotta get to English. You still comin’ over for dinner?”

“Yeah,” Johnny says.

“Tuff,” Ponyboy says. He looks at Dally again and gives him a short nod before heading inside. Dally nods back.

When he’s gone, Johnny and Dally look at each other a moment. Johnny’s cheeks have gone pink with cold. He holds a dry, cracked hand out and Dally takes the offered cigarette.

“You wanna get outta here?” Dally asks, taking a drag and handing the cig back to Johnny, who takes one as well. Dally doesn’t know why he asked.

Johnny thinks about it for a minute, worrying his lip between his teeth, “Yeah, sure.” He grins as he hops off the picnic table. They pass the cigarette back and forth all the way to Dally’s car.

Dally drives too fast down the tiny back road, but Johnny doesn’t say anything. Somewhere on Old Maple, Dally’s stomach groans, loud. “Hey, you wanna get somethin’ to eat?” Dally asks. He furrows his brow, “Did you have lunch yet?”

“Yeah,” Johnny says quickly, “You caught us at our lunch break.”

Dally glances at Johnny, “You didn’t have a lunchbox on you.”

“Nah,” Johnny says, after a moment.

“What, did you buy it? Schools do that right? You get like, cardboard pizza?” He thinks he can remember Soda saying something about it a few weeks ago, how it was one of the many things he doesn’t miss about school. But Johnny averts his eyes, and Dally’s chest tightens.

Johnny snorts, a little weakly, “Yeah, those only tastes good with a ton of ketchup on ‘em, and even then.” Something in his laugh doesn’t sit right in Dally’s stomach.

He wants to strangle Johnny’s old man. Fucking asshole probably spent his paycheck on booze and didn’t leave any leftover for food. Not even a quarter so Johnny can get himself a thing of milk. Fuck. Dally wants to kick the old man’s head in, he really does. Who does that to a kid? Who does that to _Johnny?_

Dally chews his bottom lip. He’s already gone to the DQ once today, any more and they’d probably tell him off for loitering whether he buys anything or not. But there’s a Mickey D’s down by the old church on Seventh. Yeah, that’ll work. Dally swings a hard left, tires squealing. The Mickey D’s is a few blocks away, the neon sign lighting up yellow and red across the parking lot.

“Dal—” Johnny starts, but Dally isn’t having it.

“Anything you want,” Dally insists, “Extra large milkshake, whatever. I’m buying.” Dally digs his wallet out of his back pocket. Johnny’s eyes linger on the back of Dally’s hand. Dal grins. At least the Soc was good for something, he had a twenty on him.

A couple of the Mickey D patrons give them weird looks in line. It takes a lot to get Dally to not holler at them. He’s paying for his food and everything, and cussing out a customer is not the way Dally wants to get banned from the place.

Johnny winds up getting a burger, fries, and a large milkshake that he dips the fries in. They take the food back to Dally’s place.

“Fuck,” Dally says, chewing the milkshake-soggy fry and swallowing it. It’s so good, Dally winds up stealing half Johnny’s fries for himself and dipping them in Johnny’s shake. Johnny steals his fries, though, so Dally guesses it evens out, “You’re a fucking genius, kid. Did you come up with this fry thing?

“Yeah,” Johnny snorts, sucking on his shake, “Tell that genius stuff to my old man, wouldja?”

“I will,” Dally says, chomping into another fry. His hand stings with all the moving around, but it’s not the end of the world. Dally is crumpling up the greasy paper his food came in when Johnny asks about it. “Hm?” Dally hums, then looks down at his hand, still swollen and bruising purple. He’s pretty sure it isn’t broken, but it throbs like a bitch every now and then, “Ain’t nothin’.” He shrugs, “Some Soc had it comin’.”

“Oh,” Johnny says, shoving a couple fries in his mouth, “Tuff. It wasn’t a bird this time?”

“Nah,” Dally says, eyebrows raised, “No angry broads or their boyfriends.”

“Cool,” Johnny says. He doesn’t look at Dally through his next bite of burger. They lapse into silence. Johnny occasionally finishes a bite and looks at Dally like he wants to say something, but decides against it.

Near the end of Johnny’s shake, Johnny starts shivering.

“Dumbass,” Dally says, “Who gets cold off a milkshake?”

Johnny glares at him, “I do.”

Dally rolls his eyes, “Well, the heat’s broken, so you’re shit outta luck.” Johnny continues glaring, although the intensity is broken by how hard Johnny’s begun to shake. Dally sighs, “C’mon, I got a blanket in my room.”

Dally gets up and Johnny trails after him. As Dally’s climbing the stairs, it hits him that Johnny’s never seen his room before. They mostly hang out in the kitchen, or occasionally on the couch or the back porch. Weird. Johnny seems to realize it, too, because as Dally reaches the closed door, Johnny clears his throat.

“S’nothin’ special,” Dally says, yanking the door open. It sticks a little, scraping the cold wood floor with a scratching sound. It really isn’t anything special – little more than a creaky bed, a dresser, and a drafty window. Clothes are flung everywhere. The blue-grey sheets on the bed are crumpled down at the end. Cigarettes have been crushed on the floor. It smells of weed and sex and deodorant and beer. Johnny looks around with the same wide-eyed curiosity he looks at everything else to do with Dally, “Uh.” Dally says. He kicks some clothes up and grabs hold of the comforter, a deep blue thing that smells of cigarettes no matter how many times Dally washes it.

Johnny takes it and looks around.

“Bed,” Dally grunts, “You can sit or whatever.”

“Tuff,” Johnny says through chattering teeth. He creeps over to the bed and sits, the bedframe squeaking under his weight. He wraps the blanket over his shoulders like a cape. After a minute, he stops shivering. At least, shivering so violently. He still has tiny tremors throughout his body. But that might just be a side-effect of being Johnny. He studies the room, eyes roaming from place to place, pausing to look at Dally.

Dally clears his throat, looks around for a cigarette. Finding none, he swears. He’s gotta stop smoking, seriously.

“What’s that?” Johnny asks. Dally follows Johnny’s dark finger to where it’s pointing to the wall. A _Ded Reds_ poster, handmade in drippy black and red stencil.

“A band. Some of my buddies back in New York were way into the music scene. I went to a couple shows,” Dally says, scratching his cheek. He shrugs, “Most of it was crap, but these guys were tuff.”

Johnny nods, “Cool.” He wraps the blanket tighter. A beat, “Hey Dal?” There’s something in Johnny’s voice, something gentle, that makes Dally’s heart start to pound in his throat.

“Yeah?” Dally asks. He doesn’t want to look away from Johnny, not when he’s sitting on Dally’s bed shivering, but something in his gaze is so serious that Dally can’t look right at it. So instead, he fixes his eyes on a point behind the kid, a small hole in the wall about the size of Dally’s fist.

Johnny does look away, averting Dally’s gaze, “So, Ponyboy was talkin’ at lunch today about the winter dance comin’ up,” He starts.

“Huh. I didn’t think Pony was into that kinda thing,” Dally says.

“Me neither,” Johnny says, “I guess there’s some girl he wants to go with.” Johnny shifts so he’s sitting up straighter, but is still tightly wound in Dallas’s comforter. “And were you there when Steve and them were talkin’ about, like, kissing, right?”

Dally thinks, “Yeah. Steve was drunk, wann’e?” Dally grins.

Johnny smiles, “As a skunk.” Another beat, “You’ve been with girls and stuff, yeah? I was wondering, like…” Johnny shifts to the side, his teeth worrying his bottom lip, “How you know when you want to kiss someone?”

It’s charged with something that makes Dally’s neck warm. Dally laughs and it comes out high, “I mean,” He says. He steps closer to the bed. Dally runs a hand through his hair, “Geez, I dunno, Johnny. When a girl wants to kiss you, that’s easy. She’ll put a hand on your arm, or sometimes she’ll laugh real hard at your jokes that aren’t funny.”

“Okay,” Johnny says, slowly, “But that’s not really what I meant.”

Johnny has a wisp of heavily-greased hair falling in front of his eyes. Dally considers brushing it back into place. Dally glances down at Johnny’s lips, which have healed nicely from his row with the Socs a few weeks back. Johnny’s tongue darts out to feel an invisible scab. Dally’s heart stops.

“When you wanna kiss someone, it’s like, I dunno. You look at them and want to make ‘em feel good,” Dally says, “Like… Your heart might beat fast and your palms might get sweaty, I guess. But sometimes it’s more than that.” Johnny looks up at him and Dally hears him inhale, “It’s like fuckin’ Shakespeare, ya know? Makes you wanna write poetry or somethin’. Like, you want them to feel good, but only the way you can make them feel.” Johnny’s eyes are deep brown and wide and he keeps looking at Dally. Dally swallows, “When you wanna kiss someone… It’s like...”

Dally doesn’t know who moves in first. Maybe both of them do. But then they’re kissing. Their mouths press together, Johnny’s soft and scabbing, Dally’s sticky and dry. Dally tilts his head to one side and opens his mouth. Johnny follows suit, a little sloppy, but earnest. Dally’s heart hammers in his chest. He snakes his arms over Johnny’s bony shoulders and the comforter, not breaking their contact. Dally feels Johnny inhale, and tastes his breath on the exhale.

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

Eventually, Johnny pulls back, breathing hard.

Dally grins, huffs a laugh. “It’s, uh, like that,” Dally says, grabbing hold of Johnny’s chin between his forefinger and thumb.

Johnny smiles, “Tuff.” He says. A beat, and Johnny grins, “Like Shakespeare, eh?”

Dally laughs, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Make me,” Johnny says.

Dally grins and leans forward, closing the space between them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy pride month yall shits getting gay


End file.
